


The Past And All Its Scars

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Forgiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 11:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13363323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: After his return from Neverland, Killian is upset to discover that Emma hasn' made good on her promise to always see the best in him, and they realize that there are some issues that need to be solved and not swept under the rug. A past 6x17 fix-it fic.





	The Past And All Its Scars

Despite them having been under a sleeping curse for weeks, the spontaneous celebration for the happy breaking of that curse with the participation of basically the whole town exhausts David and Snow. Taking turns in cuddling their baby son throughout the evening, they are heading home soon, making up for lost family and couple time.

Emma and Killian don't stay at Granny's much longer either; they, too, feel the need to retire to their private bubble of happiness, at least for a bit (because obviously, they will have to face an ominous _final battle_ , whatever that means), after all the emotional turmoil of the past weeks and especially the past days' separation. Without needing to talk about it, Henry simply hugs them goodnight and says he'll be at Regina's for a few days, not before whispering to his soon-to-be stepfather, “I _knew_ you'd be back.” A warm wave of happiness washes over him at that display of trust from the lad.

At home, Killian insists he needs a shower to scrub Neverland off of his skin, but Emma just changes into her pajama pants and is humming contentedly while she brushes her hair and ties it into a loose ponytail. With an incredulous smile on her face she looks at the ring on her left ring finger and touches the diamond almost reverently, admiring the way it catches the dim light of the bed stand lamps and turns it into something pure and blinding. Just like the love she feels in her heart and soul for that man in the bathroom she's so endlessly grateful for having back. Happy tears well up in her eyes, and she thinks how lucky she is that she managed to find him and bring him back with her again (for the umpteenth time, honestly, she's lost count), and that their reunion was perfect, that they did it the right way this time, without barriers and secrets.

She hears that the water in the bathroom is turned off and smiles in eager anticipation that he'll be with her soon, looking forward to snuggle up to him and feel him near after the last few horrible nights alone that almost cost her sanity. A shiver runs down her spine at the memory, and she lifts her shoulders in a gesture of self-protection without even noticing. Quickly, she walks over to the large bed and pulls back the comforter, ready to slip into the warmth.

The bathroom door opens, letting out a little cloud of scented steam, and Killian appears in the doorway, clad only in a fluffy white towel slung around his hips. Suddenly, the temperature in the bedroom rises a few degrees. His hair is still damp from the shower and wildly sticking out in every direction, like always looking black as a raven's wings when it's wet. He frowns in in confusion, and even if she's drop dead tired, she has to fight the urge to jump him. She licks her lips subconsciously.

“Emma, this is weird,” he says, “but I can't find my razor.”

That _is_ weird indeed, because usually she's the one to misplace things, whereas Killian – no surprise there, to be honest – is the neat one whose stuff is always orderly. And really, how would he misplace such a huge thing like the impressive, ancient cut-throat razor he uses to keep his scruff trimmed and as irresistible as it is.

She shrugs at first. “I don't...” Suddenly, she falls silent when it hits her, a feeling of dread piercing her gut. Because she remembers now, all too vividly, why Killian's razor isn't in the place where it belongs and where it's always been since he moved in with her. He tilts his head, brow still furrowed, while he waits patiently for her to continue – because judging from her reaction, he can clearly see that something's off. “Uh... I think it's... it's in your chest,” she offers and licks her lips nervously.

Killian just raises one eyebrow. He's never been slow on the uptake, unless he's dealing with some weird 21st Century contraption. Right now, he understands right away what her stammered explanation means, especially in combination with that conscience-stricken look on her face, but he decides not to comment on it – yet. Glancing around he quickly scans the room before his eyes come to rest upon Emma's flaming face again. “And where might my chest be?” he asks in a controlled voice.

She squirms under his scrutiny and curls her toes in her fluffy socks, pressing them into the hardwood floor. “Uhm I think it's...” Subconsciously, the fingers of her right hand start to twist the ring on her left, clutching it firmly between thumb and index finger. She draws a deep breath. “You see, I thought...” But her mind is blank, can't come up with an explanation or even an excuse for what she's done. “It's downstairs,” she finally admits in a small voice.

“ _Downstairs.”_ he echoes, his voice incredulous and grave.

She could slap herself for not thinking about moving his things back to their bedroom before, right after she'd learned that he hadn't left her and was doing everything he could to fight his way back to her. But ever since then things had gone all upside down with a new catastrophe nearly every hour, she had to worry about Gideon, about her parents and the evil Evil Queen, and with Killian being separated from her she nearly lost her mind, so she simply forgot about it. She had the shell phone, and that was enough. Now she deeply regrets it, but he'll surely understand, he always does. “Killian, you were gone,” she argues, “and I–”

Killian holds up his finger, and the words get stuck in her dry throat. “Wait. Just so I understand this.” He narrows his eyes, and her heart sinks when she feels the anger radiating off him. “I was gone for _two days_ ,” he growls in a rising voice, “and you stowed away my belongings and took them out like _waste_?“ The last word comes out as sharp as the missing razor blade, and Emma flinches at the sound of it.

Deathly, deafening silence descends heavily upon them, and while dread settles low in her belly, Emma searches her mind for words that make sense, but all she can do is go into defense; all her energy seems to have been drained from her, and it takes every little bit she has left to attempt to just keep breathing, somehow.

“It wasn't like that!” she finally claims tonelessly, frantically trying to scramble together her whirling thoughts. Her eyes, wide like tea cups, are fixed on him, desperately searching for a hint, a sign that he believes, that he understands her, like he always has – how many times has he told her that she's an _open book_ to him, for fuck's sake? He will now, won't he? He _needs_ to understand what she went through, that it was just a knee-jerk reaction, born from her stupid fear and the immense heartbreak...

“ _Two days,_ Emma!” he repeats and slowly shakes his head, clearly shocked. His voice is very quiet now, seemingly bare of any anger, and _that_ really terrifies her. Like in slow motion, she sees his Adam's apple bob when he swallows before asking incredulously, "Am I really that easy to move on from?” The telltale muscle in his jaw clenches, a sure sign of his inner uproar.

“ _Easy?!”_ she gasps, feeling sucker-punched. _That's_ what he thinks?! “It wasn't easy!” she protests and feels the tears sting in her eyes again, but they're not happy tears this time. “It nearly _destroyed_ me!” she continues, her voice on the verge of breaking. “But I thought you'd left me, it was like a déjà-vû of–”

“Yes, I know, Emma,” Killian cuts her off almost briskly. “I know you've been abandoned way too often, and you lost everyone. _I know.”_ Absentmindedly, he rubs his hand over his stump in a slow, circular motion, like he often does to smooth out the faint marks left by the leather sheath of the hook. “My own father sold me and Liam into servitude when we were children, so he could flee from justice for his misdeeds,” he recalls in a crisp voice, his gaze drifting into the void for a moment, before he focuses on her again. “My brother managed to save us from that hell only when we were grown men, and shortly after that, he died in my arms.” A faint tremble in his voice shows how painful the memory still is and always will be. “So did a woman I loved,” he continues, “and after _that_ , for centuries I had no one to care if I lived or died. So _yes_ , I bloody _know_ what it means to be alone in this world.” With his last words, his voice rises, the anger back for a moment, before he exhales slowly, deliberately through his nose and swallows. “I just...” He snorts a sad little laugh and tilts his head. “I just hoped that I'd never have to feel like that again.”

His words cut her to the marrow, almost paralyze her – because, honestly, what can she say? With sheer willpower Emma keeps the tears from falling, not wanting him to think she uses them to mellow his anger or manipulate him into empathizing with her. So, they're choking her voice instead. “I'm so sorry, Killian,” she barely manages to get out, taking a tentative step in his direction and raising her hand as if she's about to reach out for him, “that's all I can say.” When he doesn't reply and doesn't make a move to step closer to her, she pulls her hand back and clutches the ring again between her fingers. “Do you... do you want me to give the ring back?” she asks tonelessly.

“What?!” he snaps and narrows his eyes in disbelief. “Hell, _no_ , I don't want you to give the ring back!” He rakes his fingers through his still damp hair, disheveling it even more, the angry spikes mirroring his mood, clearly. “Remember, a few hours ago I promised you I'd always be by your side?” he reminds her, and stern, acid sarcasm seeps into his voice as he tilts his head to the right. “Well, surprise, the pirate meant what he said.” His words sting, as if he slapped her, and Emma has the impulse to fire back how unfair he's being, because he _damn well_ knows she stopped treating him like an untrustworthy pirate a long eternity ago, and since then, she has never acted like... like... _like she was seeing the worst in him._ Her shoulders slump a little, and she averts her eyes when she realizes that she's done _exactly_ that.

In a sudden move that makes her almost jump out of her skin, Killian snatches her hand with the ring and holds it up between them. “With this ring, with me offering it to you and you letting me put it on your finger, we made a _commitment_ to each other,” he clarifies, “and for me it's worth as much as a marital vow itself. We can't renounce that every time things get a little rocky or don't go like we expect.” His voice has softened the tiniest bit now, and he lets go of her hand. “That's not how it works, Swan.” He sounds more disappointed and sad than angry now, and that's even worse – she can handle him being furious at her, but seeing him so raw and hurt and knowing she's responsible for it... that's almost more than she can handle. She's unable to reply and just looks at him in pain. He sighs and squares his shoulders. “If you excuse me, I'll just go and retrieve my things.”

He turns around and leaves the bedroom while she's left standing in the middle of the room like someone who's utterly _lost_. He doesn't slam the door behind him, it's more of a quiet, determined click, and Emma finds that almost even more devastating. She resists the urge to run after him, to stop him, because, she tells herself, there's nothing to worry about. Oh, she knows she screwed up, _badly_ , and she knows they'll need to work through this, _really_ work through it, and not just ignore it. She knows she's hurt him and disappointed him, and he's angry, but he's not gonna leave her – he's _not_. He didn't ask the ring back, he sticks to his commitment. _That's more,_ an evil little voice whispers in her head, _than you were willing to do for him_. No, he's not gonna leave. He's just going downstairs to look for his chest.

When Killian comes back, balancing his chest on his left forearm and steadying it with his hand, his spontaneous fury has boiled down again, but the anger and disappointment are bitterly simmering low in his stomach. His gaze falls upon Emma, she's sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to the door, and she doesn't turn around when he enters the room. But he can clearly see how her shoulders sag a little in relief, as if a heavy weight falls from her, and he knows: She's relieved that he's come back, that he hasn't left the house. It makes him even angrier that she _still_ even contemplated this, and he has the momentary urge to lash out at her again with some sarcastic remark, but then he notices how fragile she looks, even if he can't see her face. Ruefully, he decides not to let his momentary ire get the better of him and make him say something he'd regret, and so he lets it pass and just quietly returns to the bathroom.

Meticulously, he trims his beard, and the controlled, practiced movements help him to put some order into his thoughts and, which is far more difficult, into his feelings. The routine calms him down and keeps his emotions from overwhelming him, even if that's hard.

That evening, when she walked in on him as he was trying to burn the dream catcher, and his dirty, despicable secret came out, he was far too overcome by his own guilt and self-loathe to feel anything else – but deep down, it kept nagging at him like a poisonous vermin: she had refused to hear him out, refused to even _try_ to understand him, understand where he came from and why he'd wanted to erase his own memories. She'd accused him of not trusting her, of not trusting in _them_ to overcome this together... when it had all been a problem of him not trusting _himself_ , not trusting that he ever could be that man she deserved, because every time he thought that maybe, just maybe he was getting there, something happened to painfully remind him of the pure evil he was capable of, and it just _killed_ him. Afraid that he would never be free of the man he'd been for a long time, he'd thought it was better to just erase the memories of him.

A bad decision, he knows that now, but in that moment, he just wanted to forget, he couldn't bear to destroy the happiness that was radiating off her ever since he'd put that ring on her finger. But Emma couldn't understand – and what was worse, she didn't even _try_ to. She had once said to him she'd always choose to see the best in him, but in one of his darkest moments, when he'd have so desperately needed someone to tell him they _believed_ in him, when he himself couldn't, she chose to see the worst. She chose to accuse him of not trusting her, chose to send him away. And when he didn't return to her when she'd expected him to, she chose to see the worst _again_ , disappointingly ready to believe he'd abandoned her like everyone else had, and she simply erased every trace of him in her life, as if he'd never existed. Oh, he doesn't doubt that it pained her to pack away his belongings, but obviously she didn't even contemplate the _possibility_ that something had to be wrong – the thought that he would rather _die_ than willingly leave her, didn't even cross her mind.

And that bloody hurts like a bitch.

Killian almost cuts himself when he clenches his jaw involuntarily, and he quickly finishes the deed, as the exhaustion from his latest travel through various realms is starting to kick in. Thankfully, the physical debilitation helps to numb the emotional uproar, and finally he puts on a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt and opens the door again. Reluctantly, he admits to himself that he's been avoiding returning to the bedroom for as long as possible, since he wasn't ready to face Emma's presence yet – he _isn't_ , actually. Isn't ready to hear more explanations from her – _excuses_ , whispers a tiny voice in his head – nor see pain and tears of self-deprecation on her face. He doesn't want that for her, she's suffered enough, and he doesn't want her begging for his forgiveness either, because it's pointless – _of course_ he's going to forgive her, but he isn't ready to soothe her pain just yet; it might be selfish of him, but he feels the need to indulge in licking his own wounds for a bit first.

The bedroom is only dimly lit by the lamp on his bed stand; Emma's obviously left it on for him. She seems to be already asleep, or she pretends to be. Her back is turned on him, and she doesn't give any sign that she hears him walking through the room or feels the shifting of the mattress when he climbs in bed.

Killian looks at her back and sighs, on the verge of being overwhelmed by his feelings again. He's still hurt, of course, and yes, also angry – but his love for this woman, it's ingrained in the very core of his being, he loves her _so_ much... and he _understands_. Yes, he understands what went on in her mind and in her heart in those moments. The walls she once had – he's brought them down, made them crumble to dust, but... he remembers what he himself told her once, that those wounds inflicted on people when they're young, they tend to linger. His own, bitter experience had spoken from him then – and he knows now they both have made the mistake to just pretend all their traumas never happened. Alas, ignoring them could not erase them, because they have left an entire map of scars and need mending and healing. And this is something they need to do individually, but also together.

She's rolled into a miserable ball almost at the edge of the mattress… as if she's deliberately putting distance between them, as if she's trying to give him space – or as if she's afraid _he_ might shy back from her, show rejection. He sighs again and slides close to her, and after the tiniest hesitation he wraps his right arm around her from behind, spooning her like they do so often. He notices that she clutches her hand with the ring with her other hand, and his chest clenches painfully. He puts his hand on top of hers, his fingers cradling hers, and she seems to relax the slightest bit against his body, painfully sighing in her sleep, murmuring his name like a prayer.

He tries not to think about her lying alone in this bed, _their_ bed, crying herself to sleep and thinking she might never see him again – for whatever reason. He's had enough pain for today, for both of them, and he murmurs _“I love you”_ into her hair before the sheer exhaustion overtakes him and he falls asleep.

***

When Emma wakes up the next day, it's almost noon, and a cold hand grips her heart as she finds the bed beside her empty. Her eyes scan the room in alarm, and she immediately spots the folded note on her bedside table. _I'm on my ship_ , it reads in Killian's old-fashioned, bold and elegant handwriting, _I'll be back in a few hours_.

She sighs and drops the note on the sheet, rubbing her hands over her face, covering her eyes as the full impact of what happened last night hits her. Without being aware of it, the fingers of her right hand find the diamond ring on her left and start to rub the golden band, its smooth texture soothing her aching troubled soul a little. She knows that it's time they really work through this – which they should have done way earlier, she knows _that_ , too. All the things that have happened to them, that have been happening _constantly_ since they became a couple – they have never dealt with any of it in a healthy way. Mostly because there was never time for that before the next disaster came along, and in the brief moments of peace it was just all too tempting to simply try to enjoy those occasions, _live_ those moments. But all those terrible things – the loss of Killian's heart and almost death at the hand of Gold, Emma taking the darkness and then infecting Killian with it to save his life, the hurt they inflicted on each other while being possessed by it, Emma freaking having to _kill_ him and then following him into the Underworld, losing him again and again, enduring separation after separation... these things actually happened, and both of them just _ignored_ them, just carried on, carrying invisible burdens that would have broken and destroyed others a long time ago.

Over a very short frame of time, they both have kept secrets from each other, outright _lied_ to each other, and she realizes now that this could only happen because they both have never really tried to actually _deal_ with their traumatic experiences instead of just glossing them over. Emma didn't tell him about the shears of destiny, because she was so used to always having to deal with problems on her own.

And Killian's hiding of the truth... she understands now that his initial hesitation to tell her about his discovery of the murder of David's father right away had nothing to do with him not trusting her or not trusting in their love or being afraid of her family's reaction. No, it was all about _him_ : he just had started to believe in and forgive himself, accepted that he'd left his nefarious past behind and become the man he'd always wanted to be. Learning what he'd done to David's father was like a flashing signal to him that he'd _never_ be able to escape his past, that it would _always_ be there and come back to haunt him.

He was trying to figure out how he'd be able to live with that memory and with himself, and in his very own knee-jerk reaction he'd come to the conclusion that he just couldn't bear to live with the knowledge of what he'd done, and so he tried to erase the memories of his ruthless act.

For the first time, Emma understands what her immediate reaction had _really_ done to him: he'd never really felt worthy before anyway, that had always been _his_ trauma – just like her fear of abandonment had been hers – and with her reaction, her sending him away when he'd needed her reassurance the most, she had confirmed what he thought he'd always known: that he _just wasn't worthy_.

And whereas in the most desperate times he'd assured her that he loved her, no matter what she'd done and that he'd never stop fighting for them, she'd sent him away to sort out his problems on his own and by himself. She'd promised him to always choose to see the best in him, and instead she'd jumped to believe the worst. _Twice_. First, when she'd accused him of not trusting in their love, and a second time when she was ready to believe he'd just packed up and left her. Like Killian Jones had _ever_ left her since the day he'd admitted that he'd just needed reminding that he could care for someone else.

Words echo through the back of her head, spoken some time ago, spat almost... words full of malice, aimed to hurt, yet spoken by a beloved voice...

_You're so afraid of losing the people that you love that you push them away...You don't need some villain swooping in to destroy your happiness, you do that quite well all on your own._

What he threw at her when he had given into the darkness she'd forced upon him was painfully true then and seems to be dangerously close to the truth even now. Those damn fears she thought she'd overcome, they raised their ugly head again when she least expected it, and now she wonders if she ever will be able to get the better of them.

Emma sighs and swings her legs out of bed, fighting the urge to go and find Killian, talk to him. She knows he needs a bit of time and space to process his own feelings, and his ship is the best place to soothe his soul, or so she hopes. She can't run after him now and maybe let him think she's doubting him again. And she _isn't_. He told her he'd be back soon, and he will be. _Surprise, the pirate meant what he said._ His sarcastic words from the previous evening weren't much less hurtful than those spoken by The Dark One Killian Jones, but they were not filled with much spite – this time, it was more pain and disappointment that rang in his words.

All she can do now, anyway, is fight the anxiety and wait. So, she forces herself to get up and go to the bathroom to take a shower, take care of herself, soothe her nerves with everyday routine. She gets a bit calmer as the hot water rains down on her. What does Killian always tell her, basically since she's met him? _You can do this_. She knows she can. She can work through this and work her way back to him. She knows he will not make it unnecessarily hard for her, because he loves her.

When she's ready and finally leaves their bedroom to face whatever the day (well, the rest of it) will bring, the warm scent of coffee fills her nose, and her heartbeat picks up a beat. She hurries down the stairs and slows down only when she's crossed the hall and has almost reached the kitchen door. Stopping for a second, she draws a deep breath before she enters.

Killian is standing at the kitchen counter and turns around when he hears her, a steaming mug in his hand. He doesn't smile, but the expression on his face is soft and open.

Without being aware of it, she raises her shoulders a little, a self-protective gesture, and smiles nervously, hopefully. “Hi,” she greets him tentatively.

“Hey,” he replies, and she's relieved to hear his voice isn't cold or curt, there's no distance in it, not even a trace of rejection. He puts the coffee mug on the table and gestures a vague invitation in her direction. “Here. I thought you could use it.”

“Thank you.” She steps nearer and takes the cup with the steaming beverage in her hands, but doesn't sit down.

“I went to see your father,” Killian explains and runs his hand through his hair. “Felt like I should... talk to him.”

“And?” she asks, not really anxious about his answer on that one. She knows that her father has made up his mind about the tragic events of the past.

He tilts his head. “You were right,” he just replies and averts his eyes for a moment.

Emma's heart grows heavy. “Killian, can we–“

“Care for a walk?” he interrupts almost brightly and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Uh... yeah, sure,” she answers, thrown off track a little and confused, because she didn't expect him to avoid a conversation; but then, maybe, he isn't trying to. A walk seems like a good occasion to talk, especially if they're heading to the docks, like she suspects they will be. _The horizon,_ she thinks. Yes, that's a good idea. The fine skin around his eyes crinkles the tiniest bit in the hint of that special smile that's reserved only for her, and he tilts his head in an encouraging nod. Her heart is a little lighter, and coffee, still untouched, is forgotten immediately.

Quickly, she puts on her boots and deliberately leaves the red leather jacket in the closet, choosing the soft, sandy brown one instead. It's the one she was wearing when she opened up to him about her feelings towards him for the first time, when she told him that she couldn't lose him, too.

After the first few steps, she tentatively laces her arm through his. He doesn't pull away, of course he doesn't, but nevertheless she breathes out a quiet sigh of relief when she feels the muscles of his forearm tense and trap her hand between his elbow and his ribs. Instinctively, she doesn't start a conversation but lets them adjust to just being close like that again. Some sort of tension is still unmistakably there, but she can almost physically sense it dissolve a little.

Just when she finally feels they've waited long enough, and thinks now the moment's right to start talking, she realizes where they've been heading: of all places, they have ended up at the cemetery. While she's still trying to process what's going on and to find a way to start, her eyes widen in dread: Killian has led their path to the very place where she once – not long ago – had to bury him. The stone with the inscription of his name has been removed, thankfully, but the sensation of standing here is still eerie, painful. Her mouth is dry all of a sudden, and she has to swallow before she is capable of getting out a single word.

“Killian, why are we here?” she asks tonelessly and pulls her hand away from his arm, instinctively rubbing her own arms with both hands to warm her for the chill that comes from her very marrow.

Killian steps in front of her, facing her and thankfully obstructing her view on his former grave. “Do you remember when I came back?” he returns the question instead of giving an answer.

Emma looks at him, bewildered. What kind of question is that even? How could she _ever_ forget any of that ordeal? “Of course I remember,” she replies in a shaky voice, not knowing where he's aiming at.

“So you know that the ruler of all the Gods sent me back here, right?” he continues. “He told me he'd send me where I belonged.” He tilts his head, his eyes searching hers, his intense gaze capturing hers, burning right into her heart and down to the bottom of her soul. “But he didn't send me just _anywhere_ in Storybrooke,” he points out and reaches for her hand, “he dropped me off right here in front of _you_ , because _that_ is exactly where I belong – not just _here_ , but here _with you_.” The telltale muscle in his jaw twitches, and he raises his eyebrows, giving her an encouraging nod.

“I know that!” she exclaims and squeezes his fingers, so grateful for the long desired contact of skin on skin. “I _know_ you'd never leave me,” she affirms, “I know it in my head, I know it in my heart – hell, I even know it in my _guts_!” The wind blows a strand of her hair into her eyes, and she furiously combs it away, wishing for nothing to break the eye contact with Killian, because she needs him to _understand_ , even if it's so hard, barely possible for _herself_ to understand. She starts to nervously shift her weight from one foot to the other. “But then... suddenly, out of the blue, there's this fear,” she shakes her head, her gaze wandering around, trying to find an explanation somewhere, where her mind can't, “and it feels like it's invading me, eating me up, like a fucking parasite...” her voice drifts off, and her panicked eyes fly back to his. “And there's nothing I can do about it!”

Killian nods and takes a step nearer, invading her personal space, and that old habit of his has the effect on her it's always had: it calms her down, immediately. “I know what you mean, love, believe me,” he replies in a controlled, calm tone. “I really started to feel like I was... on the right side,” he tells her, and she frowns in confusion. “Part of the heroes. But then...” he looks down on their joined hands and swallows. “I fell back into the darkness in a matter of moments.” Emma opens her mouth to protest, but he quickly cuts her off, “Yes, I know, in the end I was stronger, but only when it was almost too late.” She lets out a shaky, broken sigh when she remembers once more the moment of his sacrifice. He tilts his head in the direction of his former grave. “But apparently, it was enough to earn me a second chance, in spite of the life I'd led.” His shoulders sag a little, as if a huge weight is pressing on him, bringing him down. “And yet, when I learned what I'd done to your grandfather...” He lets his voice trail off and shakes his head.

She squeezes his hand even harder than before, ignoring the pain in her fingers when his rings press into her flesh. “You didn't know–“

“Emma,” he interrupts firmly, “I killed an innocent man without a second thought when I didn't have to, and I bloody well knew it.” She doesn't know what to say, because he's right, of course. She's seen it in the memories he tried to destroy, and what she saw was cold-blooded murder, nothing to justify that. “But you were right,” he goes on after a moment, “your father didn't even have to think twice before he forgave me. It's just that...” He looks down at their hands again and rubs his ringed thumb over her knuckles. _“I'm_ not there yet,” he says finally and tilts his head in a shrug. “I can't forgive myself.” He draws a deep breath and looks up at her again, a sad smile tentatively lifting the corners of his beautiful, sorrowful mouth. “But I will, eventually. It just takes time.”

Emma feels hot, bitter tears sting in the corners of her eyes, and finally she speaks the words he needs to hear so badly, the words he needed to hear from her on that fateful evening. “Killian, you're not alone. I promise.”

He nods once, almost solemnly, and his eyes glitter for a second before he blinks his tears away. “I guess that's something we both still have to learn.”

She doesn't know what to say, so she just holds on to him, reaching out for his hook with her right hand. He smiles briefly when he notices and asks softly, “Do you want to go see your parents? Make up for lost time?”

“Not with them,” she replies immediately, “not today. I want to make up for lost time with _you_ , and I'm not yet ready to share.”

That touches him, and secretly, he's glad about it. They do need a bit of time to themselves, and for once, today's the day when they just _take_ that time, Black Fairy and Final Battle be damned. So, they walk around and spend some time at the docks, have a light super-late lunch or super-early dinner at Granny's and then walk home again through a for once quiet town. It's not that they talk much, but that's okay; their souls connect, and their hearts are opening up to each other. It's a start, one step at a time.

Afterwards, they get home to a quiet, empty house, and Emma feels a little guilty that she's relieved, but again, she's determined to take that time. Because she knows, sometimes a Savior needs to save themselves first.

When they get ready for bed, Killian takes off his hook and its brace and sets it aside to its usual place on the bedside table, and the familiar, domestic gesture finally makes Emma crumble. While she watches him, she realizes how close she was to losing him again, and how it was – at least _partly_ – her fault that he was at the wrong place in the wrong time. Hadn't she sent him away, Gideon could never have arranged for him to be carried away to another realm.

Killian turns around when he hears her choked, shaky sigh, and he can see that she's fighting to hold back tears. The way she wrings her hands and chews furiously on her lower lip breaks his heart, because he knows _exactly_ how she feels. Guilt and self-deprecation, two of his oldest friends, together with darkness his very own _trio infernal_ of demons. There's not much he can do for her right now, though, he's aware of that. She needs to fight her way through it.

He takes a step in her direction. “Emma–”

“I'm so sorry I failed you,” she breathes.

He shakes his head. "You didn't fail me, love,” he contradicts firmly. “You _tripped_. Made a mistake. I made them, too.” He puts his hand on her shoulder in a reassuring touch, or so he hopes. “It's human.”

There's panic on her face. "But what if... if it happens _again_? If my fears get the better of me?” She shakes her head furiously. “I never should have doubted you, I know you'd never leave me. I _know_ that. And yet, I–” She falls silent and combs both hands through her hair in a desperate attempt to calm her nerves and order her thoughts. “What does that say about me?” she asks in a pleading voice, “About us?”

“I'll tell you what all this says about us,” Killian replies resolutely. “That we're not perfect.” She snorts at that and averts her eyes. “That we were both wrong to think our wounds would just miraculously disappear when we found each other,” he continues and inclines his head a little so he can make direct eye contact. Her expression is tormented, but also hopeful, and she's listening to him like her life depends on it. “Your fear of abandonment doesn't just cease,” he tells her quietly, “and neither does my feeling of... worthlessness.” She flinches at that and reaches for his hand. Accepting her silent support, he squeezes her fingers and goes on, “No matter how many times I tell you that I'll always be by your side, or you assure me that I'm a hero.”

Emma feels tears well up in her eyes when she realizes that what he says is true: no matter how much love she will be regaled with from him, from her family and friends – the lost little girl from a long time ago is still living somewhere deep inside her soul, and she will always continue to, having that unquenchable need to be reassured of that love, again and again.

“Those wounds,” Killian says now, “they heal eventually.” He lifts his stump between them. “But the scars remain.” He lets go of her fingers and pensively runs his thumb across the scarred skin, and for a moment it's like he's more talking to himself. “And from time to time... they hurt.” The moment flies by, and he's back with her. He reaches for her hand again, brushing his lips over her knuckles with unspeakable tenderness. His voice has almost dropped to a whisper. “But when they're taken care of and tended to...” In an almost solemn gesture, he puts her hand on his wrist, and the comparison of his own, very physical wounds to those suffered by their tormented hearts and souls almost brings her to her knees. “In the course of time, they soften and become smooth,” he says and covers her hand with his, “and even though they'll always remain a part of you, they don't bother you anymore.”

Emma nods through her tears. “I love you, Killian, I really do,” she tells him in a thick voice, “So much.”

“I know,” he reassures and grasps her hand in his, “I _know_. And I, you.”

She sinks her gaze into his eyes and finds nothing but unabated love in those blue depths she wants to get lost in. He is her safe haven and her anchor, and she wants nothing more than to reassure him that she is also his. She wants nothing more than to learn how to _be_ that for him and not falter, ever again. She exhales deeply, letting go of the tension.

“And what do we do now?” she asks.

Killian shrugs. “We forgive each other, and then we try to forgive _ourselves,_ ” he points out, and Emma nods slowly. That will for sure be the hardest part, for both of them. But she knows, if they have each other's back, _together_ , they can face it. “We fight for each other,” he continues firmly, “take care of each other's scars.” He motions between them with his hand. “We're both not good at accepting help from others,” he admits, and she can't contradict – it would be a lie. “But maybe we should be more open to that, too,” he suggests. “Turn to our family in times of need instead of trying to deal with everything on our own. Talk to people.”

Emma frowns in question. “You mean, like Archie?”

He tilts his head. “I found my recent conversations with him surprisingly... _helpful_ , and also encouraging.”

She nods in agreement. “Yeah, me too.”

He puts his index finger under her chin and lifts her face a little to him, searching her eyes. “We'll be alright, love,” he promises.

She presses her lips together, suddenly overwhelmed by her pent-up emotions, her voice broken as she all but sobs, “I lost you so many times...”

Killian pulls her into his arms, her heartache almost unbearable to him, and cradles her head in his hand in a soothing, protective touch. “I'm so sorry, Emma.”

She tries to melt into him, to shut out the pain, and buries her face in the crook of his neck. _I'm not losing him,_ she tells herself firmly, _not to death, not to the darkness, and surely not to my own demons._ The thought helps, the determination feels good, reminds her of the things she's overcome to be with this man, her True Love. Slowly, her breathing calms down, and his scent engulfs her. She knows she's home. “Let me feel that you're here,” she murmurs, “that you're real.”

He tightens his embrace and swears to himself he won't let any ghosts of his past get between them _ever_ again. And that includes that he'll start to take care of himself as much as of her. “I held you last night,” he tells her, regretting now that he let her fall asleep thinking he was deliberately distancing himself from her, even rejecting her.

“I know.” Emma leans back a bit in his arms so that she can look into his eyes. Even if hers are still glittering with the tears she's only partly shed, he can see that they are full of life. “Let's smooth our scars and make love until we fall asleep,” she demands fiercely.

He huffs a little. “Aye, well...” he raises his hand and smooths her hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips rest against her cheek. “There's just one problem.”

 _Too soon?_ She thinks, and a trace of disappointment touches her. It stings. Of course, he needs time. “What's that?” she asks, and try as she might, she can't keep the sorrow out of her voice.

But he smiles and tilts his head in a lovingly teasing apology. “That might take a while. I'm not sleepy at all.”

 


End file.
